Name To a Face (23 page)

T
oo late.
Metherell’s description applied to everything Harding had done or tried to do since returning to Penzance. The dead held their secrets too close for the living to unlock. Mere stubbornness had prompted his latest and surely last recourse: a trawl through the public library’s microfilmed back copies of
The Cornishman
, in search of some vital clue buried in the roughly monthly offerings of Crosbie Hicks on subjects plucked from Scillonian history.

He had begun with editions from two years prior to the accident and was working his way slowly towards the summer of 1999. So far, Hicks had written about ancient burial mounds, King Arthur, the tin trade, rising sea levels, the Godolphins, Augustus Smith, the daffodil industry, lighthouses, dialect, place names, even the wreck of the
Association.
But none of what he had written seemed to come close to the “unrelated matter” he had helped Kerry with. And now, as Harding reached the spring of 1999, he began to fear he would come away empty-handed once more.

Hicks’s articles appeared, when they did, at the foot of the page of
The Cornishman
devoted each week to specifically Scillonian news. This seldom amounted to anything momentous and Harding had slipped into a pattern of checking at a glance to see if there was a contribution from Hicks that week before scrolling on to the next. He had, in fact, already done so with the Thursday, 29 April edition when some combination of words in one of the headlines belatedly registered in his mind. He scrolled back. And there it was.
Charity Walk to Become Celebration of Miracle Cure.

The article had not been written by Crosbie Hicks. Yet there, in the phrase
miracle cure
, was the connection with the Grey Man of Ennor Harding had been searching for, the connection that was also a clue.

CHARITY WALK TO BECOME

CELEBRATION OF MIRACLE CURE

The campaign to pay for a fourteen-year-old St. Mary’s girl to receive treatment in the United States for a rare form of leukaemia has ended in her complete and unexpected recovery.

A sponsored walk round the coast of St. Mary’s to raise some of the money that would have been needed was planned for Bank Holiday Monday 31 May. The walk will still go ahead but will now be a celebration of the all-clear Josephine Edwards recently received from her consultant at Treliske Hospital. Her parents, David and Christine Edwards, of Guinea-Money Farm, St. Mary’s, said they were “amazed and overjoyed” when they were informed that exhaustive tests had confirmed the reason for the sudden disappearance of Josephine’s symptoms was that she was now free of the disease.

“We were told a bone-marrow transplant wouldn’t be effective for Josephine’s particular type of leukaemia,” Mrs. Edwards added, “and that her only hope was a revolutionary treatment being pioneered at a hospital in Colorado. There was no way we could afford to send her there and we’re hugely grateful to everyone who offered to take part in fund-raising, including the walk round the island. The doctors can’t explain what’s happened. They’ve never known anything like this before. It’s not just a remission. It’s a total cure. In fact, it’s a miracle. We’re over the moon.”

Harding went out into the street to call Metherell. His phone rang almost as soon as he switched it on. His first thought was that Metherell had called
him
, perhaps having remembered something more about Crosbie Hicks. Accordingly, he answered without checking the number. And found himself talking to Carol.

“Ah, at last. Mind telling me where you are, Tim?”

“Penzance.”

“Why have you gone back there? What the hell are you trying to do?”

“Tie up some loose ends.”

“Oh yeah? And have you tied up any?”

“For a start, I’ve learnt Humph stole the ring from Heartsease.”

“Really? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s the sort of thing he would do, just to spite Barney.”

“He thinks you’re spiting
him
, by holding the funeral in Monaco.”

“He flatters himself. I don’t care what he says, thinks or does. The ring means nothing to me. You must know that. Which is another reason why I just don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Have you heard that Nathan Gashry’s dead?”

“Yes. Suicide, apparently. Good riddance.”

“Is that all you have to say about it?”

“What else is there to say? I never even met the man. But he sounds a nasty piece of work.”

“For God’s sake, Carol, don’t you see? There’s something going on here you’re missing.”

“And what might that be?”

“Do you remember Josephine Edwards?”

“Who?”

“A young girl on St. Mary’s who made a miraculous recovery from leukaemia back in 1999. Just before Kerry went to stay with you.”

“Leukaemia? What are you talking about?”

“Josephine Edwards,” Harding insistently repeated. “Do you remember?”

“No. Of course I don’t.”

“It must have been big news at the time, Carol. Your customers would have discussed it. A lot of them would have known her. Or taken part in the walk round the island intended to raise money for her treatment. Isn’t any of this even vaguely familiar?”

There was a brief interval of silence. Then Carol said, “All right. I do remember. For what it’s worth. Yeah. I put a poster up in the café and I signed up for the walk. You’re right. She got better spontaneously. Happy ending all round. What about it?”

“Did Kerry take an interest in the story?”

“It happened before she came down.”

“But people must still have been talking about it. You must have mentioned it to her.”

“Probably, yeah. What about it?”

“Did she seem interested?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Try.”

“This is crazy Tim. You’re-”

“Did she seem interested?”

Another silence. Then: “Maybe. Maybe not. I genuinely can’t remember. And I really don’t see why it should matter. For Christ’s sake, Tim, what are you-”

He ended the call there and then. And rang Metherell immediately. “Why does it matter?” he murmured under his breath as he listened to the dialling tone. “I don’t know, Carol. But it does. I’m certain of that.”

“Hello?”

“Mr. Metherell. It’s Harding again.”

“Ah, Mr. Harding. Found what you’re looking for yet?”

“I may have. Do you remember a local girl called Josephine Edwards, who made a miraculous recovery from leukaemia? The case got a bit of publicity at the time. This was seven years ago, just before Kerry’s accident.”

“Of course I remember. It was a remarkable thing. But I don’t-”

“Do you know if she’s still living on the island? She was fourteen then, so she’d be-what?-twenty-one now.”

“Certainly she’s still living here. In fact, you met her yourself last week.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Josephine Edwards is Josie Martyn now.”

Harding spotted Metherell’s white Honda parked behind the terminal building as the helicopter descended towards St. Mary’s Airport. It was the last flight of the day, so Harding would not be able to return to the mainland until the following morning. Metherell had offered him a bed for the night, which he had naturally accepted, but he was in truth thinking no further ahead than that afternoon. He was close to the answer now. He could almost touch it.

The Isles of Scilly’s famed subtropical splendour was no more in evidence than it had been the week before. The cloud was low, the wind biting. Metherell did not get out of his car as Harding approached, merely raising his hand in greeting.

“And so, here we are again,” he said as Harding climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. “My wife thinks I’m mad to be indulging your whims like this, you know.”

“They’re more than whims. But I’m certainly grateful for your help. And sorry if I’ve caused any domestic friction.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just put me in the picture.”

Harding did his level best to assemble his surmises and suspicions into a coherent account as they sat watching the helicopter loading for its immediate return to Penzance. The missing segment of the Gashry report; Kerry’s interest in the Grey Man of Ennor; Josephine Edwards’s miraculous recovery from terminal leukaemia; her marriage to Fred Martyn; and Kerry’s fatal diving accident: they were linked, he felt certain. There was a hidden truth that bound them together. Whether he had persuaded Metherell of that, however, he rather doubted. As the tone of the other man’s response seemed to confirm.

“What does all this really amount to, Mr. Harding? I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.”

“I can’t tell you exactly what it adds up to. But it adds up to something. You told me yourself the Martyn family has lived on this island since the Middle Ages.”

“According to Crosbie Hicks, yes. Since the fourteenth century as I recall. Which you’ll immediately point out to me is the Grey Man of Ennor’s century.”

“So it is.”

“But what of it?”

“Barney Tozer talked to me just before he died about the sequence of events on the day of the accident. Mind if I check it with you?”

Metherell shrugged. “Why not?”

“Barney flew over with Ray Trathen the day before. He spent the night at your house and you drove down to the quay together the following morning with the diving suits and gear he and Kerry were going to use. Right so far?”

“Yes.”

“You and Barney loaded the stuff onto the
Jonquil
, then he walked back into town to fetch Kerry and Carol. You stayed on the boat with the Martyns. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Were you on board the whole time you were waiting for Barney to come back?”

“Sorry?”

“Did you stay on the boat until Barney returned with the girls-and Ray Trathen, who they met on the way?”

“I…” Metherell frowned as he struggled to remember.

“Well, did you?”

“No. Since you ask, I didn’t. The harbourmaster wanted to confirm we had proper written permission from the salvors to dive to the wreck. I went to show him the paperwork. I can’t have been off the boat more than five minutes, but-”

“You
were
off it.”

“Yes. So?”

“Well, you obviously didn’t take the diving gear with you.”

“Of course I didn’t.” Metherell looked round sharply at Harding. “What are you suggesting?”

“The gear stayed aboard. With the Martyns. If they’d wanted to tamper with it…”

“Why in God’s name would they want to do that?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure they did. But… I just have this… feeling that…”

“I spoke to Christine Edwards before coming to pick you up, Mr. Harding. She remembered the accident, of course. It was big news at the time. Much bigger than her daughter’s triumph over leukaemia. She was quite adamant on one point. Kerry Foxton had never contacted them. Which I’m guessing you’d have expected her to, if she made the same connection you seem to be making between Josie’s defiance of the medical odds and the Grey Man of Ennor.”

“You believe her?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“No reason, I suppose.”

“Exactly.”

“Nevertheless…”

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Harding. Let’s go and see the Martyns now. See if you think Josie’s lying when she tells us she never met Kerry Foxton. Or if Fred and Alf are holding something back. My bet is you’ll sense what I sense: there’s nothing to this. You’ve put two and two together and made five. Actually, a lot more than five. So, how about it? Isn’t it time to put up or shut up?”

“OK,” Harding replied, acknowledging with a nod that such a time probably had come. “Let’s go.”

The scene at Pregowther Farm had not altered since Harding’s last visit: smoke rising from the farmhouse chimney; chickens scavenging in the yard; a perspective of hazy yellow away through the daffodil fields towards Porth Hellick. He suspected it had probably not altered to any significant degree in centuries. The past and the present were fused here in the thin grey light of late afternoon. Only the future could not be detected.

One of the Martyn brothers stepped into view from the deep shadows of the barn as they climbed out of the car. Harding could not have said with any certainty which of them it was. But Metherell knew. “’Afternoon, Alf,” he called.

“’Af’noon, Mr. Metherell.” Alf strode across the yard to meet them. “You’ve brought your friend with you, I see. Mr… Harding, ain’t it?”

“Well remembered,” said Harding.

“Still worriting about poor Miss Foxton?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“I read in this week’s
Cornishman
her sister was wanted for the murder of Mr. Tozer. That right?”

“It is.”

“Sorry to hear that. Folk should let tragedies heal themselves, not go after making them worse. But the gift of leaving well alone is a rare one and that’s a fact.”

“Mr. Harding just wanted to check a few points about the accident, Alf,” said Metherell.

“Nothing I can tell you I didn’t tell you last week.”

“It’s the week
before
the accident I’m interested in,” said Harding.

“Can’t see how I can help you, then. Mr. Metherell here arranged the trip with us. He’s the only one of the passengers that day Fred and me had ever clapped eyes on afore.”

“You’d never met Barney Tozer?”

“No more we had.”

“Or Carol Janes?”

“Her neither.”

“Never dropped into her café in Hugh Town?”

“We’ve got no use for cafés, Mr. Harding. There’s a hob indoors if we want a cup o’ tea.”

“What about Kerry? Did you ever meet her before?”

“That we didn’t.”

“Are you sure you can speak for your brother?”

“I am.” Alf gave Harding a long, deliberative look. “But maybe you ain’t. Fred’s in the house with Josie. We can step inside and ask him if you want him to tell you himself.”

“Actually, I was hoping to ask Josie the same question, so…

“Come away in, then.”

Alf turned and led the way towards the house. Metherell shot Harding a cautioning glance. But Harding had left caution behind. He would learn nothing by treading carefully. “How is Josie, Mr. Martyn?” he enquired as they crossed the yard.

“Blooming is how she is. Just blooming.”

“Good. Though I gather that hasn’t always been the case. She was once very ill, wasn’t she?”

“In her girlhood, yes. A long time ago.”

“Did you know her then?”

They had reached the door. Alf pushed it open and stood back to let them enter. “Oh, I know all the farming families on this island,” he said quietly.

A narrow hall led straight ahead, past the stairs, to the kitchen and a scullery beyond. A door to the left stood open, while the one to the right was closed. Harding glanced through the open doorway into a simply furnished sitting room, sensing more than observing the immutability that was the dominant characteristic of Pregowther Farm
and
its occupants.

“Fred,” Alf called over Harding’s shoulder. “We’m got visitors.”

Fred’s head bobbed into view round the scullery doorpost. “How do,” he said brightly.

“Hello,” Harding responded, advancing slowly along the hall with Metherell at his shoulder. He heard Alf close the front door behind them. An aroma the sweet side of mustiness disclosed itself around him.

“All well, Fred?” asked Metherell.

“All good, Mr. Metherell.” Fred moved into the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Josie about?”

“Resting upstairs.” A floorboard creaked above them. “But… sounds like she’s coming down.”

Josie appeared above them at the head of the stairs and began a slow descent, her pregnancy looking to Harding even more pronounced than the week before. She smiled down at them. “Hi, Mr. Metherell.”

“’Afternoon, Josie.”

“Hello again,” she said to Harding.

“Hello.”

“This is nice. We don’t get many visitors.” She glanced at Fred. “Put the kettle on, darlin’. We’ll have some tea.”

It was as she turned, leaning heavily on the banisters, that Harding’s eye was caught by a gleam of jewellery on the left breast of her smock-top. He gaped up at it in astonishment. And a fox cub, fashioned from jet and mother-of-pearl, gazed playfully back at him. “That’s a… nice brooch,” he said numbly.

“Yeah.” Josie blushed. “Fred gave it me.”

Harding turned towards Fred. “Where did you buy it?” he asked.

Fred’s mental wrestlings with the question were written on his face. “That’s no business of yours.”

“I think it is, actually.”

“He recognizes it,” said Alf quietly.

“What are you talking about?” asked Metherell. “What’s going on?”

“The brooch belonged to Kerry Foxton,” Harding replied, still staring at Fred.

“No,” said Josie. “It was her…”

“Sister you took it from?” Harding asked, looking back up at her.

“That’s torn it,” said Alf.

“You took that from Hayley?” demanded Metherell, rounding on Alf. “For God’s sake, how could you be so stupid?”

“Fred took it. I didn’t find out until it was too late.”

“But you knew…” Metherell broke off. He had said too much. And the significance of what he had said-the true, terrible meaning of it-was irretrievable. He turned back to face Harding. He seemed to struggle to say something. But no words came.

“You’re all in this together, aren’t you?” Harding gasped. “What in God’s name have you-” There was a movement behind him, fast and swinging; an impact; then oblivion, as complete as it was sudden, as black as it was total.